


Monica

by 4wholecats



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Content warnings for... Orson and Orson related activites, Done for Calamity's Advent, F/M, Implied Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25695604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4wholecats/pseuds/4wholecats
Summary: Monica is fifteen, and she is quite excited to try on her new uniform.Monica is twenty three, and she giggles as she is led down the dark hallway, struggling to keep her gown from tripping her as she runs.Monica is thirty, and at the sound of a door clicking open, she nearly throws aside her book.Monica is…Monica is. And that is enough for Orson.
Relationships: Orson/Monica
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17
Collections: Calamity's Advent





	Monica

**Author's Note:**

> me before writing this: heeheehoohoo funnie sacred stones jokes. orson nasty man.  
> me after writing this: *sobbing openly*

Monica is fifteen, and she is quite excited to try on her new uniform. It’s heavier than her usual number, and this one even has  _ real lace _ on the bows. There’s a royal ball in the palace tonight, and even the servants must look their best. She slips the outfit on and gazes at herself in the mirror, twirling slightly as she runs her hands through the fabric. Surely this was nothing in comparison to what the noble ladies of the land would be wearing tonight, but it’s the most decorative dress she’s ever owned. 

The hall is bustling by the time she arrives, and she spends the night on her feet. She smiles as a small group of Frelian pegasus knights thoroughly clear out the full platter of food she had been holding only a moment before. The party has been going for hours, and it seems things are starting to wind down. She catches sight of a few fellow maids and butlers leaning up against a nearby pillar, talking instead of serving, and decides that her duties must be coming to a close for the night. Her feet hurt, her ribbons are coming loose, and she’s starting to sweat off her makeup, so she turns on her heel and begins the short trek back to her quarters. Ideas of a warm bath and a cozy bed cloud her mind, and in the dim hallway, she doesn’t see the man until it is too late. 

She bounces harmlessly off his armored chest, wobbling as she reels on her feet. The man’s hand grasps onto her wrist and she uses it to steady herself.

“Gods, I’m so sorry sir, I wasn’t paying attention-”

“Whoa, hey, it’s alright. No harm done miss,” the man says, letting go of her wrist. His hands hover in front of him, as if he’s afraid she might tumble to the floor regardless, and she looks him full in the face.

He’s her age, with curly brown hair and a pathetic attempt at a moustache. He’s got the broad-shouldered confidence of a knight, despite his simple guardsman uniform. He looks… familiar.

“Have we met?”

“Maybe? I think I’ve seen you around before,” the man says as he bows slightly. Monica studies his face as he straightens up, and he squirms slightly under her glare.

“Uh… well if you’re alright I’d better-” he cuts himself off as she steps forward, heels clicking on the stone tiles. 

“Wait a second. I  _ do _ know you. You practically ran me over with those armored hooves of yours a few years ago. In the courtyard.”

“Oh, well… I can’t quite remember that-”

“And you didn’t even say sorry!”

“I’m sorry! I don’t remember, but I’m sorry if I’ve harmed you all the same,” he’s teetering the line between defensive and guilty now, knightly poise folding under her stiff attitude and upturned nose. Monica sighs. No, now was not the time to go about terrorising the castle guard. 

“Well, better late than never I suppose. You are forgiven, Sir…?”

“Orson, ma’am.”

“Sir Orson. And you can call me Monica, by the way.” He bows a little bit again, but says nothing, so she continues. “So… are you also escaping the party?”

“My shift just ended, so I suppose so. I would have thought things would be winding down by now…” He glances down the hallway behind her where the light from the ballroom colors the hallway carpet.

“Well… at the moment it's mostly just his majesty getting drunk with the senior staff, so I suppose that is ‘winding down’ in a sense,” she shrugs. He meets her gaze again, and she can see that he would prefer not to participate in the ongoing festivities ahead. 

“Say, could you walk me back to my room? There are an awful lot of strangers in the palace tonight, and I’d prefer to not go alone…” She trails off, looking at the guard expectantly. He straightens himself like a toy soldier. 

“Of course I can. Please lead the way.”

\---

Monica is twenty three, and she giggles as she is led down the dark hallway, struggling to keep her gown from tripping her as she runs. It was an expensive thing, long and white; befitting of the bride of one of Renais’s premiere paladins. The two newlyweds stumble out into the garden, giddy and just a little bit drunk, bathing in the light of the moon above. 

“I thought we’d never get out of there,” Orson says, smiling from ear to ear. Even in the darkness, she can see he’s flushed, and whether it’s from alcohol or something else, she’s not sure. He wastes no time pulling her in close to his chest and planting a sloppy kiss somewhere close to her mouth. 

“Orson!” She giggles, fighting back playfully before attacking him with a kiss of her own. Her lipstick smudges into his beard, the red looking almost like a bloodstain against the dark hair of his face. 

“Orson,” she pauses to throw her head back and laugh; “Your suit is so rumpled… you look like you’ve just escaped a tavern brawl!”

“I’ve earned-” he pauses to hiccup, which makes Monica cackle into her hand, “I’ve earned a night of letting loose, don’t you think? You can too! C’mon-” he shucks his suit jacket, throwing it into a nearby rosebush. “You can get a little crazy too, I won’t tell, I promise!”

“Oh no mister, not in the gardens! Here,” she takes his hand, feeling the jittery, excited warmth through her white bridal gloves, “Why don’t we go back to your quarters and celebrate a bit more. Just you and me.” She smiles up at him, ecstatically genuine, and Orson takes only a second to consider her words before whooping delightedly and scooping her up in his arms. They leave the garden almost as quickly as they came, the only sign of their presence being a tailored suit jacket hanging limply from a branch in the corner of the yard. 

\---

Monica is thirty, and at the sound of a door clicking open, she nearly throws aside her book. It takes her a few moments to steady herself enough to leave the bed, but she meets Orson in the doorway of their sleeping quarters with a kiss. 

“Are you doing alright?” He says, a hand on her cheek. She sighs and leans into it.

“Of course I am, darling. I’m pregnant, not dying. I’ve been waiting all day, how did it go?”

They retreat further into the room, and Orson helps her back onto the bed with a gentle hand. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous in my life, Monica. Everyone important was there… His and her Majesties, Sir Cedric and General Lilian, even though I thought she was on leave still… they even got General Francais out of his office for once… Your brother was there...”

“Don’t keep me in suspense like this! Stress is bad for the baby, you know!”

Orson stands proudly in the center of the room, hands on his hips.

“Miss Monica, you now stand in the presence of the General of the Knights of Renais-” a squeal cuts off his announcement as Monica bounces in her seat, waving her hands in excitement. She stretches out her arms and he practically dives into them.

“I’m so proud of you; look at how far you’ve come,” she says, smiling into his hair. He laughs, kissing her again on the cheek. 

“And still such a long way to go! With you at my side, I’m sure I’ll be leading the entirety of the army in just a few short years, my dear.”

\---

Orson is forty three, and as he looks down into the grave, soon to be his wife’s final resting place, he strangely feels nothing. He’s been crying for days, and his chest still feels far too tight, but at this moment, he almost feels at peace. 

The funeral is over, and soon, the casket will be buried. He’s done this before, with a coffin much smaller, but this part, the waiting and the shaking of hands, is like torture. Folks mill about, stopping to pay their respects to the empty man and the upturned dirt before circling back towards the castle. A hand lands on his shoulder, and he almost doesn’t recognise whose it is until the man begins to speak.

“General.”

King Fado does not sound unkind. Having lost his own wife only a few months prior, he probably understands Orson’s current state of mind better than any of the other people here. Orson peels his gaze away from the casket.

“My lord.”

The king says nothing for a bit, and after looking into the knight’s eyes, he resolves to simply patting the man on the shoulder, nodding his head forlornly, and turning away. The graveyard is nearly empty now, Orson notices. Monica’s brother, Marshal, stands out from the sparse crowd, his eyes red with tears. Orson looks away. The sight makes him sick. 

\---

Orson is forty three, and he nearly snaps a squire in half when she knocks on his door. He had explicitly told them that he was not to be disturbed, and yet they come to him with their complaints and reports as if nothing was wrong. 

As if he hadn’t just buried his wife.

The doorknob turns slowly, as if the person on the other side isn’t sure if they really want to enter and face the beast inside. It’s General Lilian’s boy, and Orson chucks a book at his head as hard as he can. He doesn’t watch as the door slams closed again, tome thumping against the wood before falling sadly to the floor, pages limp and bent. 

\---

Monica is…

Monica is. And that is enough for Orson.

\---

Orson is forty five when he meets his end, speared on the end of the princess’s sword like a piece of cheap meat at the market. Monica’s head lolls towards the dim light of the bedroom door opening, mouth agape as she rasps.

Her legs, bare under the sheets of the massive bed, twitch and seize as she attempts to right herself. Her husband will want to see her. He always wants to see her after his shift is over. 

She gasps hard, gurgling her greeting towards the figures in the doorway. They don’t move, so she speaks again, louder this time. The woman standing there covers her mouth with her hands.

One of the men, Fado’s young facsimile, approaches her. She reaches out to him.

Monica’s second death is quick.

The royal chambers smell like blood for weeks. 

\---

Monica is thirteen, and this is her first time visiting the Renais palace. She’s too old to hold her brother’s hand now, instead choosing to stride behind him with her shoulders set and her chin held high. First impressions are important, or so her mother says. If she wants a job here, she must not come across as unsociable. 

Marshal nods to some of his friends on duty before heaving open the heavy wooden doors. Monica squints into the sunlight of the courtyard, shielding her eyes with a hand. There are many people here, most of them armored. Boys, younger than her brother for the most part, mill about holding weapons. Some train in the empty patch of dirt in the center of the area, and some sit off to the side, resting in the shade. 

As her brother moves to introduce her to some of his friends, she follows, only to be shoved backwards as someone barrels into her shoulder.

“Hey-!” She yelps as she falls, grabbing onto the offending person, sending them both tumbling onto the flagstones. 

The other person grunts as they hit the ground elbow first with a cringeworthy thump, the sound of bones becoming dangerously close to broken. Her landing is cushioned by the other’s prone body, and she lands upon their back with a squeak. As quickly as she went down, she scrambles back up, ignoring the indignant sounds coming from the person she climbs off of. 

It’s a boy, in armor much like the rest of the trainees in the courtyard. He rolls onto his back cradling his hurt elbow with a gloved hand. His hair is a curly, mousy sort of brown, and he blinks at her with dazed brown eyes. He looks up at her for barely a second before Marshal’s hands grab onto the collar of his arming doublet and haul him to his feet.

“Watch yourself, pal,” her brother spits at him. The boy can’t be more than fourteen, and Marshal, a paladin of twenty, seems to scare him out of his wits. The boy nods and wiggles out of the tight grip, stumbling to recollect his weapon before practically sprinting away towards the fence on the far side of the courtyard.

“You don’t have to be rude, Marshal!”

“Stupid kid should look where he’s going. You could have been hurt,” he seethes, fists balled as he watches the boy fumble with the latch on the far gate.

“He didn’t mean harm… Everyone makes mistakes like that. You’re quite clumsy yourself,” Monica says, lifting her chin up again to meet his softening gaze. She sighs as she looks out over the courtyard. The boy is gone, leaving only the open gate in his wake. “Do you know him?”

“Me?” Marshal thinks for a moment, “I think his name is Orson. One of the new trainees… Not really my department though. You don’t mean to chase after him, do you?”

“Chase…? What? No. But if I work here then I might run into him again. Maybe even literally! I should learn his name-”

“Monica, I’ve seen that shifty look in Ma’s eyes enough to know what you’re thinking. Don’t go after him. He makes a shit first impression.”

“Hm.”

“Are you listening? A boy like that will only get you in trouble.”

Monica smiles to herself at that, and Marshal rolls his eyes.

“Perhaps I would like to get in a little bit of trouble, then.”


End file.
